On Hiatus: Greece
by rukushaka
Summary: "Broken glass," John said matter-of-factly. "On my bad shoulder, too, of all the rotten luck." The story behind the scar, or: Two blokes walk into a pub in Greece. Set during the Hiatus, no slash.


**I don't own it. **

**This is the backstory to the scar on John's shoulder blade from when he and Sherlock were On Hiatus.**

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_Sherlock's mouth twitched in a barely-there grin, but he quickly became serious as he gently peeled the left shoulder of John's shirt down to bare his shoulder blade._

_Mycroft strolled around the table and peered at the neat scar that was now visible. There was a barely-there tilt to his head; a tilt that translated to being reluctantly impressed._

"_Broken glass," John said matter-of-factly. "On my bad shoulder, too, of all the rotten luck. Sherlock got me out of there, half carried me back to the hole where we staying - it was no good trying to stitch it myself, I couldn't have reached and by that stage I was barely conscious in any case - he had me straddle a chair, cleaned the wound, and stitched it up, quick as you like."_

_ - The Ruse._

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Ready?" Sherlock stepped out of the tiny bathroom, recently clipped hair standing up in damp spikes, and shrugged into his black shirt.

The shorter hair removed the careful curls he'd maintained before the Fall, making him look older by a few years. John himself had let his hair grow out of its habitual close-crop and had dyed it a mid-dark brown - the exact shade had been chosen by Sherlock to both match his skin tone and make him appear younger. The combined effect of these simple changes was to make them appear almost the same age, all the better for throwing off potential trackers and facilitating their chosen cover.

John glanced up from slipping his shoes on, "Ready. What's the story tonight?"

"James and John Mendez, brothers," Sherlock dropped the appropriate identification on the bed. "Spanish relative as usual: our father, Miguel, estranged since we were young. English mother, Victoria, unfortunately afflicted with early-onset Alzheimer's and currently in a nursing home in Edinburgh. We grew up in Ipswich and went to boarding school in Westminster before taking off for the continent, where we studied together at the University of Seville. You took a degree in Medicine and I in Linguistics, and we both have post-graduate qualifications in Computer Technology - "

John made a noise of disgust, letting his face show clearly what he thought of that. _I'm no good at computers and you know it, you prat._

Sherlock's mouth twitched, but he continued without pause, " - We graduated last year and are now touring Europe before we settle down and find jobs, likely back in England."

"Childhood memories, and all that," John agreed, suppressing a pang of homesickness.

Sherlock nodded, buttoning his shirt with flying fingers, "As James has the degree in Linguistics, you'd best let me do the talking - John Mendez hasn't been in Greece long enough to pick up the language. We won't need to do much talking for our business tonight anyway."

John switched the i.d. cards in his wallet with those on the bed and slipped it into his pocket, "And what exactly is our business tonight?"

Sherlock affected a look of innocence, "A few friendly drinks, that's all. Unless, of course, you flirt with the wrong girl and subsequently get into an argument with her brother, distracting him long enough for me to pick his pocket."

"There's always a girl," John sighed mock-mournfully, far too used to Sherlock's ploys to be genuinely put out, "Even when we're playing at being boyfriends, there's always a girl."

Sherlock smirked at the reminder of Amsterdam, but said nothing. He picked his mobile up off the bedside table and pocketed it, shaking his head in a negative motion as John reached for his gun. "We shan't need it. Don't bother with a jumper, it's warm enough out."

They locked the door on their way out, and a brisk ten minute walk had them at the pub. It was a long, low affair built of dark brick, but the inside was surprisingly spacious and well-lit. It was also very nearly empty, John noticed, but a glance at his watch showed it was not quite 8pm - the crowds wouldn't be here for another hour or two.

"My shout," Sherlock murmured as they stepped in the door, and nodded to a table in the back corner, "Why don't you grab us that table. Beer's the standard drink on these occasions, yes?"

And without waiting for a reply he breezed off to the bar, leaving John to wind his way to the corner table. He took a seat with his back to the wall and casually shuffled his chair around the table so that the second seat would also have a clear view of the room.

Sherlock appeared minutes later, bearing two glasses of beer and a pleased smile. He slipped into the second chair and slid one glass across the table, "There we are. Dark beer, brewed locally," and without changing tone or moving a extra muscle in face, he continued lightly, "The girl in red is your mark, and man at the bar by the cash register is her brother. Cheers."

They clinked glasses and took a synchronised draught, John reflecting as he did so that Sherlock was surely one of the best actors of his generation. But then, as he'd been told once, _"The thing that makes you look suspicious is acting suspiciously. Nothing is more conspicuous than someone trying to creep everywhere as if they were in a bad spy movie. Whereas if you act completely normal and probably slightly hurried, no-one will give you a second look. You have places to go and things to do, they have places to go and things to do. You're just one of the faceless crowd. As long as you don't call attention to yourself, you're fine. It's the same principle for not whispering during important conversations - whispering just draws attention. Rule four: don't draw attention unless you mean to."_

And then there was the fact that the man didn't even _like _beer, and yet here he was, sipping it as if it was the nectar of the gods to be savoured for all eternity. Or at least, John reflected, to be savoured until he got back to the motel room and stuck a finger down his throat.

"Enjoying your trip, Juan?" There was a light Spanish accent to Sherlock's voice.

John didn't even blink, "_Si, _Jaime. It has been very educational."

"You're not getting travel fatigue, I hope?"

John took another swig, "Not at all. Belgrade was rather busy, though; I'm looking forward to having a bit of a rest here before we move on."

The glimmer in Sherlock's eyes said _Ah yes, Belgrade. Three hits in one night was certainly busy, even by our standards; _what he said out loud was, "It was rather busy, yes. We're not on as much of a time schedule here, we can slow down and take our time. Enjoy the sights, as it were."

Behind James' pleasant face, Sherlock was clearly sneering at such banalities.

John replied to both with a bland smile, "Well, it's not everyday we get to travel Europe. We may as well make the most of it." He let his gaze travel the room, lingering on the dark-haired girl in red, "And speaking of enjoying the sights..."

This time, James' and Sherlock's reactions were perfectly matched in a disgusted snort, "Come off it, Juan! _Another_ chica?"

Biting back a laugh, John shrugged and finished the last drops of his beer, "I'm sure to get lucky sometime, aren't I?"

"I wouldn't count on it," was the disgruntled reply. "Very well then, go and land yourself a plump little bird. You're not bringing her back to the motel, though."

"What?" John protested, "Where else am I meant to go? Jaime - "

"No," was the firm reply, "Take your bird back to her nest if you wish to mate with her."

"There's no need for that sort of - "

"Oh, go away, Juan." The words were a sullen growl, the moment reminiscent of a dressing-gowned Sherlock sulking on the couch, _better yet stop inflicting your opinions on the world_; but behind the lowered brows and brooding eyes was a mischievous glint and a silent chuckle. "Let me drink in peace."

John stood and left the table without a word, maintaining a front of aggravation as he approached the counter and motioned to his empty glass. The barman refilled it silently, and when John reached for his wallet the man shook his head and gestured to the corner, where Sherlock was studiously ignoring them.

John smiled tightly and nodded his thanks.

It took no more than three minutes of leaning against the counter and surveying the room before he caught the girl's eye. She smiled politely if distantly, and he took that as his cue to approach her table.

"May I?" he smiled his most engaging smile and slid into the seat across from her. "I'm John - John Mendez. ¿_Hablo Español? _Or English?"

Her face brightened, "English! I speak - a little."

_Thank you, Sherlock, _John thought. This mission would have been difficult to achieve if the mark spoke neither language, but of course the genius had done his research. "Excellent. And can I ask your name?"

Her eyes darted behind his shoulder for a second, but she remained completely relaxed as she replied, "But of course! Elena - Elena Stefanik."

"Elena. Beautiful name." And a very protective brother, if she was keeping an eye out this early in the conversation. No cause for alarm yet, she was showing no signs of tension; but when the time came the man shouldn't be hard to provoke into an argument. In the meantime, Sherlock was picking up the tab, and he might as well enjoy himself.

"Can I buy you a drink, Elena?"

Half an hour later they were getting along famously, even with the dual language barriers - limited English on Elena's part, and (as his own acting had progressed by leaps and bounds under Sherlock's tutelage) a tendency to slip into Spanish when excited on John's. She was leaning forward across the table, maintaining eye contact for longer periods of time, and touching her hair frequently - all standard signs to imply interest or attraction - and was just reaching for his hand when a shadow fell across the table.

She retracted her hand so fast John swore he could see the motion blur, and drew herself up straight and cold, "Nico."

The man was an even six foot, somewhat on the pudgy side, and with an ugly glint in his eye that had John scooting chair back slightly in case he had to make a quick getaway. The man had a mate on either side of him: they made no move to introduce themselves.

"Elena - " there followed a clipped sentence in rapid Greek, breath reeking of alcohol; the gist of it was, as far as John could make out with his limited vocabulary, _what are you doing?_

She replied in the same language, waving a hand between John and herself: _having a drink and making a friend, obviously._

His voice became harsher, eyes darkening to an ugly scowl, and John judged it time to break in before they got into a full-scale family fight right there.

"Elena? You know this man, I assume?"

She broke eye contact with the stranger and flashed a strained smile, "My brother, Nico, and our cousins. Nico, this is my friend, John."

"And I'm John's brother," Sherlock appeared at the table and offered his hand, "James Mendez." He repeated the introduction in Greek.

Nico sneered at the outstretched hand and said in slow, strongly-accented English, "I do not like you."

Sherlock's smile brightened to a dangerous level. "That's nice, I'm sure we don't like you either. John, I think it's time we left, don't you? I'll get the bill."

He slipped behind Nico to the bar, and John saw his hand dip into the man's pocket. Good.

Nico was still glaring at him. John offered a noncommittal smile, "Look, I was just having a drink with your sister. I apologise if I've offended either of you - "

"You have not," Elena broke in darkly, "Nico is just being - " here she muttered a word that John was sure wasn't very ladylike.

Her brother's retort made her go pale and stand up suddenly, "I am going. I liked to meet you, John Mendez. It was - nice. I am sorry for my brother."

She dropped a few coins on the table and made for the door.

Sherlock was just finishing his business at the bar as John stood, half-turning to watch Elena leave, "Well, this has been lovely. I'd better - "

A crash of breaking glass had him spinning back to the brother. The man was standing with his arm outstretched, having just swept the table clean of the bottles and glasses on it. There was a shower of spilt beer, spirits, and broken glass strewn across the floor between them, and Nico and the cousins were striding around the edge of the debris toward him, scowling.

There was an angry shout from the barman, one that translated universally as _Hey! That's my stuff you're breaking!_

John backed up a step and felt the edge of table dig into his back, "Now - now wait, I don't want any trouble - "

He could see Sherlock approaching from the cash register; the barman, moving rather slower, was just rounding the end of the bar when Nico swung.

John dodged the first punch easily, ducked beneath the second, and sidestepped a clumsy lunge, bringing his fist up in a clean right hook to lay the first cousin out cold. It was awkward fighting with the table at his back, but he landed a good punch to the second cousin's eye, making him recoil with a yell of pain.

He could have taken them both down, but then his foot slipped in the puddle on the floor, throwing him off balance, and as his knee came up hard to meet Nico's groin, the man caught him a glancing blow across the temple, sending him crashing into the mess of glass and alcohol on the floor.

He landed heavily on his bad shoulder, and felt a piercing pain down his left shoulder blade. Vision swimming, he could see the blurry form of Nico curled on the floor, and he felt a brief moment of satisfaction at the sight of the man crying like a baby; but the second cousin was advancing with a savage look, and John's head was pounding, and he couldn't get up -

And then a lean form charged the remaining cousin with a shout of, "You mess with my brother, you mess with me!"

It was over in seconds. Sherlock took an obvious enjoyment in inflicting wounds that would leave the man covered in bruises for weeks, but at the same time he was careful not to overstep the lines of violence that separated James Mendez, drunk angry brother, from Sherlock Holmes, borderline sociopath.

For example, John noticed muzzily, he didn't even break any bones. That was positively restrained, for Sherlock.

"Juan? Juan, are you alright?"

John opened his eyes to Sherlock's concerned face, and managed a weak, "_Si._"

There was an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him carefully to his feet.

"Jaime, I'm _fine._ He caught my head with his ham-fist, that's all."

_Possible concussion _lodged itself in the diagnostic log behind Sherlock's eyes, "You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," but there was something he was forgetting, wasn't there, and _ouch_ that's what it was, "Oh, and my shoulder."

"Your sh..." Sherlock trailed off, turning him slightly to see the damage.

There followed a string of expletives in Spanish, something that Sherlock Holmes would never have given vent to; but James Mendez, seeing the injuries done to his brother, was understandably upset.

The barman, finally reaching them, proffered an apology and then a question in Greek.

Sherlock replied in tones that were equal parts angry and distraught before slipping into English, "No, no, we're going. Juan, _vamos. _Let's go. We'll leave these swine to their hangovers and bruises... get you back to the motel... clean you up. _Vamos, hermano_."

John blinked, the world not making much sense past the pounding in his head and the clean slice of pain down his shoulder, but there was a slim arm at his back again and they were heading for the door. Sherlock kept up the muttered swearing in both Spanish and Greek until they made it to the next block over.

"You're alright, John." There was no accent, now: this was all Sherlock, calm assurance born of certainty, "You'll be alright."

John drew a shaky breath, the cool air helping to clear his head, "Of course I will. I've got you, haven't I?"

"Yes, well, that's true," more brash assurance.

John chuckled slightly, tightening his grip on Sherlock as his legs wobbled slightly, "Trust you to get me into a bar fight."

His head tilted into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, body slumping further into the warm support, and Sherlock adjusted his grip with a slight grunt.

"But then..." John continued, aware that he was rambling somewhat, "Trust you to get me out of it, too."

They made the rest of the journey in silence, John trying not to pass out. His shoulder was throbbing in time with the pounding of his head, and it was all he could do to stay standing until they made it in the door of the motel room.

As soon as Sherlock closed and locked the door behind them, John flopped forward onto the bed with a sigh. "Mmm. Sleep."

"No, shoulder," was the firm reply, and strong hands lifted him and plonked him by the sole chair, "Shirt off and straddle that, chest against the back. I need clear access to that cut."

John did as he was told, folding his arms across the back and resting his pounding head against them, "Med kit's - " he broke off to yawn, " - in the bathroom. Make sure there's no debris in the cut, and disinfect it before you stick a plaster on."

"I know, John," there was a clear undercurrent of concern in Sherlock's voice, "And I'm afraid it's going to need more than a plaster."

This took a minute to penetrate, during which time Sherlock took care of the beer in his system (John winced at the sound of violent heaving, followed by the toilet flushing and water running in the sink), retrieved the med kit, and started cleaning the cut.

"Oh. Stitches?"

A grunt of agreement.

"Oh."

There came the sting of disinfectant.

"You'll be alright?" John thought to ask, "Don't need me to talk you through it?"

"No, John," Sherlock's voice was very patient, "I will be fine."

"Mm. Good."

A minute for Sherlock to disinfect and thread the needle, and then came the first stab of metal through flesh. John inhaled sharply, the world standing out suddenly in exquisite clarity, but he'd had worse, much worse, this was nothing, comparatively, and so he didn't make any sound beyond a quiet grunt.

Back and forth and back and forth went the needle in quick precise movements, and then Sherlock was tying off the thread and sticking a plaster over the stitches.

"All done."

John blinked, "Oh. Good. I can sleep now?"

"You can sleep now," Sherlock nodded, "I would offer you something for your head, but - "

"Possible concussion," John agreed, "Quite right. You'll wake me for the standard checks?"

"Every two hours, is it?"

"Mmm."

"I'll wake you."

"Good," John heaved himself to his feet, stripped off his shoes and socks, and crawled beneath the covers, "G'night."

Sherlock had the chair angled to keep watch on the door, the bed, and the small window; it was tilted back on two legs against the wall, and the gun was sitting loosely in his hand as he replied quietly, "_Buenas noches, hermano._"


End file.
